


Snow

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Hot Chocolate, Modern Era, Multi, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:26:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9134026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Snow and hot chocolate. Sylvie loves the snow, her boyfriends, not so much.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s silent when Sylvie wakes. It’s always silent, she wakes up around six am every morning, thanks to her work schedule. She’s not back at work until mid-January, but she still wakes. Athos is a heavy, hot weight beside her, spread out on his back, arms flung wide. He always sleeps like a starfish, without a pillow, head back. Sylvie gets up on an elbow to get a look at him, and can’t help a quiet laugh about his gaping mouth and stubbly cheeks. It is incredibly quiet, even for six am. Sylvie leaves Athos and gets up, going to peek out through the curtains. She breathes in sharply, and dashes back to bed. She tumbles on top of Athos and pats his cheek. 

 

“Hmphrghu?” Athos says, turning his head to burrow into the pillow, away from her. 

 

“It snowed, it snowed! There’s snow! Get up!” Sylvie cries, breaking the pale silence. 

 

Athos pushes her off him and flops over onto his front, pulling the duvet over his head. No matter how hard she tries, she cannot unearth him. She gives up quickly, not wanting to waste her time. She rushes to the closet and tugs on clothes haphazardly- Athos’s jeans, tightening the belt; a t-shirt she thinks must be Porthos’s judging by the size of the thing; her own woolly jumper; a bobble hat that was once Aramis’s but seems to now belong to Athos; a pair of Christmas socks; her new gloves from her stocking, knitted by Porthos. She runs from the room, down the hall, tripping in the dark but righting herself, and bursts into Porthos’s room at the end. It’s pitch black in there, he has blackout curtains for his migraines and uses them all winter to ‘aid in his hibernation’. Porthos tries to sleep the entire winter away. 

 

Sylvie tiptoes over to the bed, and pokes the shape she can make out from the hallway light. Porthos doesn’t even bother to make a noise or move, he just ignores her. He’s awake, she knows he’s awake because he has the same get up time for work as her, but he’s ignoring her. She tugs the duvet off him, but still he doesn’t react. She smiles and pulls up his t-shirt, pressing her hand, always cold in the mornings, to his side. His eyes fly open. Her eyes are adjusting to the dark, and they stare at each other. Porthos huffs. 

 

“Snow,” Sylvie whispers, pressing her cold hand to his cheek and pushing her face close to his. “It snowed.”

 

“‘kay,” Porthos says. 

 

“Come out! Come on, Athos refused,” Sylvie says. 

 

“I refuse too,” Porthos says, voice soft and quiet, suggesting she too lowers her voice. 

 

“Why? It’s snow!” Sylvie whines. 

 

“It’s cold,” Porthos says. “It’s wet. It’s early. Here it’s warm and dry and… still early.”

 

“Porthos,” Sylvie says. 

 

“Sylvie,” Porthos says. 

 

She sighs, but covers him back up, tucking the duvet around him, and presses a kiss to his forehead. At least he woke up and talked to her, which is more than can be said for Athos. Sylvie sits on the side of the bed, contemplating her next move. Both of them, if she’s insistent enough, will eventually come out with her. That will take time, though, and it seems a waste. Sylvie gives the lump of Porthos a last pat and runs from the room, flying down the stairs, through the kitchen to the back porch. It’s inside and heated, and full of boots and coats and winter things. She fights into her thick winter coat and wraps herself in a scarf, and pushes her feet into wellies. 

 

She unlocks the door with a quiet click, and steps out. 

 

Everything is white. The light is brighter than usual, and the garden is pristine. The snow is deep, and it’s completely unblemished. Sylvie holds her breath and takes the first step, marking the untouched ground. She laughs, and flings herself out into it, running the length of the lawn and turning, crouching to bury her hands in it, gathering it into a ball to see how it sticks. It’s perfect- not too powdery, not too sticky. She makes a ball and throws it joyfully into the hedge, then spins, arms out, looking up at the white-blue sky, lungs filled with snow-air. She falls into the snow, and it sticks in her hair, all over her hat and clothes. She makes an angel and rolls back to her feet to admire it, then sets about making a snowman. 

 

She rolls a big ball, a smaller ball, pats and smoothes and shapes. It’s wonky, and misshapen, but she runs with it and follows the lines suggested, standing back now and then to examine it critically. She works for twenty minutes, then gets cold so she runs, spins some more, dances a bit, and then, breathless and happy, jumps into the deeper, still-intact drift by the hedge. It comes nearly to the top of her wellies. She spins and leaps away and falls to the ground to make a frantic angel. When she gets up to look at the shape, she hears a soft laugh. She turns. 

 

Athos is standing by the door, in his pyjama bottoms and Porthos’s coat and wellies, watching her, hands in his pockets. When he sees her looking at him he lets out a proper laugh. Sylvie stoops and gathers a handful of snow, shaping it and throwing it in one movement. It hits him square on the chest, and he looks down at the mark it leaves, then looks up at her, still laughing. Softly and fondly, so much affection in his sleepy expression. Sylvie goes over to lean into him, tucking her cold face in against his neck. 

 

“Ah! You’re freezing!” Athos says, wrapping his arms around her. “Um, Sylv, what is that monster on my lawn?”

 

“It’s not a monster,” Sylvie says, pulling back, indignant. She turns to look at her snow creation. “It’s obviously not a monster.”

 

“What is it, then?” Athos asks. 

 

“It’s a turtle,” Sylvie says. “Obviously.”

 

“Obviously,” Athos says, unimpressed. 

 

Sylvie throws her arms around him and spins them, falling them into the snow. Athos yells in surprise, flung onto his back, arms out like a starfish again. Sylvie rolls on top of him, presses her cold lips to his, hair falling around them, resting against his chest. His hand holds onto her coat, and he gets all breathless against her, warm and cold at once. She kisses him until his lips are swollen, then gets up, pulling him after her. 

 

“Definitely a turtle,” Sylvie says. 

 

Athos just blinks at her. She smiles and kisses him more fondly. She’s cold, now, and wet, so she heads back inside, swaying her hips and grinning over her shoulder at Athos, still stood quiet. He follows her into the porch, and she rushes out of her things, hanging them wherever. She gets down to her jumper and kicks off her wellies, so happy. She bounces into the kitchen, and then sighs in absolute pleasure. Porthos is stood by the stove, a big pan of milk turning darker and darker brown as he stirs in the thick, solid chocolate he always uses for her. He looks up and smiles sleepily, looking all cosy in a big jumper and joggers. He yawns, and turns away, to the cupboard with the mugs. 

 

“Cream’s in the fridge,” he says. 

 

Sylvie fetches it, and hoikes herself onto the counter-top beside the stove to watch the hot chocolate with him. She rubs his shoulder idly, then bends to rest her head there. His shoulders are so wide, and he’s tall, and he’s right there, and it’s still so early. He untangles her hair, untucking it and smoothing it over her shoulder, away from her face and out of the way. She yawns. Athos comes and gives the chocolate a stir, peering into its depths. Porthos wraps an arm around Athos’s waist and tugs, Athos falling against him, reaching out to steady himself on Sylvie’s thigh. 

 

“It snowed,” Sylvie says. “It snowed.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Porthos says. 

 

“We noticed,” Athos says, half laughing. 

 

Porthos gives her hair a twist, pulling it all together, then lets go. She sits up and Athos stands and Porthos takes the pan off the heat, reaching for the ladle, filling three mugs. Sylvie’s Harry Potter one gets a squirt of cream, and Athos’s cat one gets a little blob of it. Porthos only half-fills his own Cheshire Cat mug, topping it up with cream. More cream than chocolate, really. He pauses, then adds a last quirt. 

 

“Beautiful,” Sylvie says, approvingly.


	2. Tea and Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another little fluffy thing

Sylvie contemplates the cupboards. It’s still two weeks before she’s back at work, and she finally managed to sleep in this morning. She didn’t wake up until eight, and then she lay around in bed for two hours reading, listening to the news, and being lazy. She’s spent the entire day being lazy now, though, and she’s bored. Athos has been reading or on the internet all day, and Porthos was out all morning, then spent the day in his little living-room, so she’s been on her own. She considers the baking cupboard, and wonders if she can be bothered to make the chocolate cake Porthos likes. Maybe that’ll lure him out and she’ll have some company. 

“Hey,” Porthos says. 

“Have you come to convince me to make cake? Because I’m really not sure I can be arsed,” Sylvie says, turning to lean on the counter. 

He’s stood in the doorway, looking much too put-together for holidays-Porthos. The new shirt Athos bought him for Hanukkah is stretched a little over the muscles of his arms and the squash of his stomach, tucked into black jeans. He’s even got on the new bamboo socks Aramis gave him, expensive and fancy-black with silver fleur-de-lys on the ankles and coloured lines over the heels and toes. 

“What’s all this for?” she asks, pointing up and down him.

“What?” he asks, uncrossing his arms and looking down at himself, his curls falling into his face, big loops that are twisted neatly. 

“New fancy clothes, dressed up nice, and…” Sylvie pushes off and sticks her face close to Porthos, “yes! You smell nice. Of cologne!”

“Nothing,” Porthos says, looking a little sheepish. “Just being fancy.”

“Nice,” Sylvie says, leaning on the counter again. 

“I didn’t come to get you to make cake, I came to ask if you wanted to come have tea with me,” Porthos says. “I got some cake earlier, when I was out. It’s courgette and lime, and it has cranberries on top.”

“That is a much better idea than baking a cake,” Sylvie says, standing up again, going to him. He brightens, smiling, and takes her elbow. 

“Tea party,” he says, linking them together to walk through the house to the back. 

He has a little room behind the dining room, overlooking the front garden, with french windows. He’s hung bird feeders out the front and has an armchair facing the windows to watch. The coffee table’s been pulled near by, today, and the sofa shifted from it’s usual position facing the TV. Porthos has her sit and then goes to the stand-up cupboard in the corner, with the kettle and tea things. He has to go fill the kettle from the kitchen, but after that he can do pretty much everything in here. Sylvie watching him fussing with the loose-leaf tea Athos gave him for Christmas, the infuser Aramis gave him in the shape of a submarine, the china cups Constance gave him. He sets it all out on a tray with some biscuits on a plate, and carries it over, setting it proudly before her. He sit heavily in the armchair and leans back with a sigh, hands folded over his stomach. 

“That’s you done for the day, then,” Sylvie says, amused.

“Oi, I made you nice tea, don’t tease me,” Porthos says, not bothering to move or shift or do anything to refute it though. He settles more firmly into his sprawl and watches her through sleepy eyes. 

“You haven’t even had a busy day,” Sylvie says, sitting forward to pour the tea. It’s a green one so it doesn’t need steeping. 

“Better pull Aramis’s boat out,” Porthos says. “It’ll get really bitter otherwise. Is it the lemony one?”

“You made it,” Sylvie says, pulling up the submarine, letting it sit and drip on the tray. 

She sits back with her tea and crosses her ankle over her knee, looking out. There’s a lot of house sparrows, and a thrush, and a pigeon. She sips her tea and sighs, relaxing. Porthos suddenly jerks, and then jumps to his feet, rushing back over to the cupboard. Sylvie’s startled, and nearly spills her tea. He’s just getting the promised cake, though, having forgotten about it. He brings her a slice over on a plate and sets it expectantly before her, waiting until she tries a bite and makes suitably appreciative noises before settling back with another deep sigh. A sigh so deep it makes his whole body expand and then go limp. 

“I did have a busy day, anyway,” Porthos says. “I went all the way to the cake shop.”

“All that way?” Sylvie says, trying to keep her lips from twitching. It’s a five minute walk through the park. 

“Tea and cake and biscuits. No teasing,” Porthos says. “What’s Athos up to today?”

“Internet, books. I think he was watching TV and napping, last time I checked,” Sylvie says. “It’s the first day of the year, he’s always gloomy.”

“Mm,” Porthos says. “Thanks for the company.”

“I was going to make a cake to try and lure you out,” Sylvie says, letting her smile out, turning her gaze from the garden to Porthos. He’s watching her, still a bit sleepy, head resting heavily against the chair-back. “If, that is, you hadn’t got cake to lure me in.”

“You make it sound so manipulative,” Porthos says, not sounding like he minds a whole lot. “I can’t reach my tea- oh! Look. A wagtail.”

The wagtail is strutting across the path, avoiding the snow, with it’s distinctive walk and tail tip. Porthos likes wagtails, he says it’s like their tails are saying hello so he thinks they’re friendly. It makes Sylvie smile. She likes his little stories about things. She also likes how warm it is in here, how cosy, how big and soft he looks. 

“Come sit here,” she says. “It’ll be better.”

He doesn’t move, just groans, splaying his arms out, rolling his head back. She considers going to sit on him, but it’s quite nice, the peace and quiet between them, and he might want space. He either wants space or is just too lazy to move. She swaps her tea cup for the cake plate and sits back again. He watches, eyes on the cake, then lumbers up and over in an exaggeratedly heavy way, falling onto the sofa next to her, setting her bouncing. He pushes his face in against her hair, her shoulder, the rests her cheek there, looking up pleadingly. She feed him a bite of cake, and then sits forward, displacing him, and passes him his tea.

“Thanks,” he says. “It’s supposed to be date night, tonight. You and Athos.”

“Mmhmm, so it is,” Sylvie says, smiling. “And sex night. I like date and sex night. It’s the first, though, he’ll still be grouching.”

“I know. Do you want to come out with me, instead? We can bring him home a desert. I’m not offering sex, but dinner?”

“I’d like that,” Sylvie says, then she rests a hand on his belly and gives him a rub. “I know you don’t want sex.”

“I know. I know that,” Porthos says, resting his head back on her shoulder, turning his face into her hair so she can’t see him. “Wanted to feel close.”

“Alright. As long as you know. I’d like to go to dinner with you,” Sylvie says. 

“And tea, and cake, and biscuits. I’m winning, aren’t I? For twenty seventeen, I’m winning best boyfriend.”

“Over grouchy Athos? Porthos my love, an ant could win that one.”

“If I’m best boyfriend I guess I should go give him a cuddle, before we go out. After tea and cake and biscuits.”

“He’d like that,” Sylvie says. There’s quiet for a bit, while Porthos unburies himself from her hair. 

“Crossword?” he suggests, sitting up, drawing his own cake toward him, along with a newspaper that’s on the table. 

They do the clues, and eat cake and biscuits, have too many cups of tea, and spot a finch in the garden. It’s quiet. Porthos wants company, but he’s not great at new years’ either, really, and probably would be happy to curl up with Athos and doze. He’s got his own self-care routine, though. Which seems to include her company. 

“I want to take you out, somewhere nice,” Porthos says. “Spoil you a bit, yeah?”

“It’s been a while,” Sylvie says, pleased, and he reaches to touch her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Just me and you, I mean. Maybe we’ll do some more of it, this year.”

Porthos nods, and then gets up, brushing off the crumbs. Sylvie follows him to the bedroom and watches as he lays himself behind Athos, curling around him, big arms embracing him. Athos, half asleep, snuffles and turns over, pushing himself more firmly into the hug. Sylvie smiles, and goes to see if she can find something nice to wear for tonight.


End file.
